I’m hiding behind the sofa in the living room, sweating profusely and fumbling with my phone.
“Where are you, you little thief?” my dad yells as he comes down the stairs.
“I’m going to kill you, you hear me?”
He comes into the room and I can see he’s holding a carving knife.
But suddenly someone knocks at the front door and he goes to answer it. It’s the next-door neighbour.
“Hi there! You all right?” she asks nervously.
“Hello there, love!” My dad’s voice is all soft and fatherly, not mad and murderous. “How can I help you today?”
“We, uh, heard some noise and wondered if you were OK. Why, why do you have a carving knife in your hand?”
“Well funnily enough, I’ve just found a burglar in my house, so right now I’m trying to smoke the little ferret out,” Dad declares, rather proudly – though he used a stronger word than “ferret”.